


prélude et fugue

by sumaru



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Music, This Is The One Where They Play The Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4346588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A fugue is a chase, and in a chase you don't say, “You go ahead.”</i>
</p>
<p>Kageyama keeps running into Oikawa while studying music at university.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prélude et fugue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris/gifts).



> Happy birthday, you nerd.
> 
> Have this wildly self-indulgent fic.

“Tobio-chan, what a surprise!”

 

It’s not a surprise, it’s not a fucking surprise in the least, and Kageyama just shoots a glare in the general direction of the small auditorium's raised stage from where the voice floats down, readjusts the music books tucked under his arm as he makes a point of sliding out the piano masterclass schedule and setting the single sheet of paper on top of the pile. There’s only two names on the programme today, his own, and that of Oikawa Tooru, the scholarship graduate student who would be critiquing Kageyama’s performance in front of a small audience of his peers. _It's a good educational exercise_ , his professors had advised kindly, the unsaid, _It would add to your final grade_ measured out carefully in the way they pointedly did not look at each other, the concern about their student doing poorly in everything but his performance classes all too obvious; but Kageyama remembers the sharp tongue and demanding hands of his former mentor far too clearly for any of the reasons to soothe the edge off his nerves.

 

Kageyama walks past his classmates seated near the front row, doesn’t quite meet their glances, a mix of detached judgement and resentment. The nausea that has been riding low in his stomach for the last few days, a cold hollow weight that had him punching vending machine buttons particularly aggressive last night as he downed can after can of coffee to stay awake for just one more hour of practice, twists inside him so sharply that everything suddenly feels stuttered by a half beat, and for a moment Kageyama thinks wildly, _It's just Debussy, who would even notice if I made a mistake._

 

"It's certainly been a while, Tobio."

 

It’s conversational, pleasantry mirrored in the way Oikawa gestures open palmed toward the glossy black grand piano that sits in the centre of the stage. But his eyes are narrowed as he looks down at Kageyama approaching the stage steps, catches the almost imperceptible hesitation right before Kageyama ascends them to finally lift his head, staring Oikawa right in the face with a look tipped up with a confidence so straightforward and pure, a mouth set almost childishly determined, that Oikawa smiles wide and pleased. A challenge, even now.

 

“Please teach me today, Oikawa-san!” It’s a rote greeting, familiar to them both after long years of this, and it tumbles loud from Kageyama’s mouth, a grimace threatening to break the smooth line of his brow as he bows, deep and long, before going to seat himself at the piano.

 

Kageyama holds himself stiffly, shoulders too sharply thrown back giving away the state of his nerves, but his hands, resting gentle on the keys, are steady and poised; expectant. He turns to look for Oikawa's nod, and Oikawa makes him wait like that, Kageyama’s eyes trained on him too tense and strangely eager, breath caught on the inhale, for just a little longer than necessary.

 

Oikawa finally nods, and there is the sweep of sound.

 

Kageyama is more than just good; Kageyama _excels_.

 

They remember his face, first, the fine dark hair that frames the scowl on his brow and the strangely blank look; like he’s thinking in a series of tones instead of words, somewhere in there. But they remember his music, second, and most clearly of all, the measured control of his hands, the flight of them across the keys, breathless, then beautiful, air suspended between like each note is a small bell rung light and clear. They say _virtuoso_ , to praise him in the care of his mentor, and don’t notice the way the word twists Oikawa’s mouth, turns his smile cold.

 

When they remember Oikawa, they remember in comparison, the long practice hours till dawn in his first year, the _études_ and waltzes so repeated to perfection it slightly dulls the laughter of them, turns them to a strange strength in his second. A hard-working accompanist with an eye for detail and an elegance of wrist and hand, they remember,  _pretty_ , and then it's Oikawa's eyes that go flat and cold.

 

Oikawa walks over to stand by the piano, “The second part again,” and Kageyama should have known, like he has always known, that Oikawa misses nothing.

 

“What’s this, are you _cheating_?” The tone is light, singing, a casual cruelty offset by the trill of his charm, and Oikawa doesn’t even make eye contact, just looks out at the class like he’s making a joke they can all share. One hand rests on Kageyama’s shoulder, a friendly gesture if not for the curve of the fingers into a grip, a bit too tight, unmindful of the marks that it will leave on skin, and Kageyama will wear a jacket for days after even in the heat of early summer. “Somebody who’s such a little _genius_ at articulating all that Bach shouldn’t have to rely on the sostenuto for such an easy passage.”

 

The hand moves down to his own where they’re stilled against the keyboard, embarrassment digging deep into his chest, and Kageyama feels a heat flush red on his cheeks as he bites down on the choice replies he wants to yell back, grumbles instead “It’s not cheating if it _works_ ,” but suddenly Oikawa is lightly running a smooth fingertip across the knuckles of Kageyama’s left hand, dips gently in and out between them, slowly rubbing the sensitive skin between middle and ring fingers, and the light sensation is making him dizzy under the stage lights, makes him think _What would all of Oikawa’s hand feel like, now_.

 

(Kageyama knows if he tries hard enough, he’ll remember.)

 

“Your fingering is sloppy, Tobio. Didn’t they teach you anything at that fancy music school of yours? I’m going to place your hands for you, so don’t do anything stupid.” And Oikawa does, leans down over his shoulder to wrap long fingers around his wrists, and Kageyama feels the burn of humiliation, knows he’s being insulted, guided like a child, but Oikawa’s breath is also in his ear rattling off the fingering count, and sweat prickles cold along his spine. Suddenly he’s not sure what he wants Oikawa to do next.

 

Kageyama shifts uncomfortably on the piano bench, far too aware that there are people watching.

 

He stares straight ahead, hoping the glare of the stage lights will blind him maybe, do something, anything, so he doesn’t have to watch the way Oikawa’s smile alights on him, like Oikawa has finally found a weakness inside him, was ready to pry it out of his chest with the long, elegant fingers that are tracing slow, achingly slow, along the line of veins on the inside of Kageyama’s wrist.

 

“Guess I still have something to teach my useless little kouhai.”

 

When the masterclass is over, Kageyama needs to wait till everybody files out of the auditorium, waits so he can duck guilty and fast into the little bathroom offstage so he can imagine long fingers wrapped around him, the mocking lilt of Oikawa’s voice with his “Good work today, Tobio-chan~” arching him sharp and desperate. He stays a long time there afterward, leans a cheek against the cool metal of the separating wall between stalls as if that would calm the rapid staccato beating of his heart.

  
(Kageyama passes his first year, barely.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kageyama plays _Images, Livre I_ by Claude Debussy for his masterclass performance.
> 
> This story is structured along BWV 852 from The Well-Tempered Clavier I by Johann Sebastian Bach. It’s notable among that body of work for its complicated, sophisticated _prélude_ section which has two thematic fugues chasing each other instead of a single, and “particularly nasty fingering”. 
> 
> Playlist: http://8tracks.com/sumaru/prelude-et-fugue
> 
> \--
> 
> Watch as I use every musical turn of phrase possible.
> 
> The summary quote is from a masterclass given by Ronald Copes, violinist.


End file.
